


Kings Go Down

by thisiswhatthewatergaveme



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, i have no excuses only lots of great promo pictures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 10:11:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/pseuds/thisiswhatthewatergaveme
Summary: Inspired by the promos. Klaus wakes up in a dungeon and he and Marcel exchange words, and then more.





	

**Author's Note:**

> in which the author dead-ass ignores any canonical familial titles exchanged by either of the main characters and you should too!
> 
> this is almost dub con but it's not bc they both makes choices they're happy with i don't know what else to tell you

Klaus lies in the middle of the floor, surrounded by white. He wakes up like this— chalk dust tickling the ends of his lashes and a burn starting somewhere around his nose. 

He sits up gasping and jangles when he does. He’s collared and chained to a wall. Worse, there’s magic here— the circle is done thick and trembling in the air, and when he edges one foot towards it, the burning begins again. 

So he sits. He sits and he breathes and he realizes that, for the first time in a long time, his body is devoid of pain. He is thirsty in a way that feels as natural as breathing, now— that pain, that desperation, is secondary to his _relief_. 

Then the cough comes, obvious and harsh. He doesn’t turn quickly. Why, after all, when there’s nowhere for him to run? 

 

It’s Marcel, because of course it is. Marcel in the shadows by the door, that _knife_ in his hand, and—

Klaus brings his own hand to his chest. There is a rip in his shirt. He wonders how long it has been since the skin has closed. 

Marcel swings the gate back and forth like he has all the time in the world. Klaus finds himself unable to inflect any emotion into his voice when he says, “Have you come to taunt me, Marcellus?” 

He isn’t sure what he’d prefer. A taunt would be better than this… silence. Screaming inside of his head. A taunt might wake him up. 

Marcel smiles at him, eyes flinty. He hasn’t forgiven him, then. How long has it been? A month? A year? 

 

“It’s been a week,” Marcel says, his smile no kinder. “I thought you might want to know. Most of your, ah. More _vengeful_ groupies have scattered. They saw enough.” 

“Meaning?” 

“You’re not getting out, if that’s what you’re asking.” Marcel walks towards him, and crouches, so that they are almost at a level. He doesn’t seem to mind the chalk circle when he reaches in to tug at the metal collar around Klaus’s neck. “I think I prefer you like this.” 

Klaus swallows. Marcel’s hand is warm. There is blood under that skin. Dry teeth prick at the inside of dry lips. 

“Cheer up,” Marcel says, his lips barely moving. His eyes are still on the metal. “I’m the benevolent king you never were.” 

“I—” Klaus tries to usher in some kind of upset— offense, anger, spite. Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Marcel snorts. 

“You weren’t. If our places were reversed, this’d still be inside of me.” He waves the knife almost carelessly. Klaus flinches. Marcel catches him by the chin and bends him up so that he cannot avoid his eyes. “Wouldn’t it?” The knife is at Klaus’s chin, sliding down the metal in clicks and sparks, drifting down his neck, his collar bone. Klaus’s eyes flutter closed. 

 

He’s waking up. 

 

“You forget something, Marcel,” he says— spits, forcing his ire to rise. “You’re no king of mine. How could you be? Half-bit orphan—” Marcel shoves him backwards. He hits the barrier that the chalk provides, and rolls away from it quickly, stifling a cry. The pain is fleeting, but the indignity is anything but. “Just because you’ve turned yourself into some kind of aberrant _monster_  doesn’t mean you’re fit to rule, you spineless—” 

“This can go right back,” Marcel says. “I have no problem sliding this between your ribs.”

“ _Obviously_ you need something from me,” Klaus sneers, and stands. His legs shake, and the chains make him heavy, ungainly, but he needs this, needs to be even with Marcel, needs to make him remember his _place_. 

Marcel stands, then, tall and strong and steady in a way that Klaus isn’t sure he ever was. 

“You aren’t fit to be king,” Klaus says, but he knows that no one present believes it. “Why did you come? Why did you release me?” 

“I told you,” Marcel says. “I prefer you like this. I kept finding myself thinking, you know, this is the best place for him. Chained somewhere he can’t hurt anybody. Shut away from the city so that he can’t destroy it.” Marcel shrugs, and then points the knife at him, leaves it on him like a laser pointer, like he’s inspecting him. “I needed to see you like this. I didn’t need you in pain. I just needed you put away. Kept away.” 

“Marcel,” Klaus starts, but has nowhere to go from there. He looks away. 

Klaus misses him crossing the room because he moves faster than Klaus ever could. Moves to the wall with the chains and gives the one around Klaus’s neck and the one around his wrists a sharp tug. 

 

Klaus falls to his knees. 

 

“This is why I came for you,” Marcel whispers. And then, louder: “You need to understand your _place_. You need to understand that yeah, once, you were a king, sure. But sometimes, kings go down. I was your downfall. _I brought you down_.” The last word finds Marcel in Klaus’s circle, Marcel with his hand in Klaus’s hair, pulling it back, baring his neck, and Klaus finally _gets it_. 

“You want me subservient. To _you_.” He barks out a laugh, but loses it on sharp nails against his scalp, twisting in tighter. “You will never be my king.” 

“You haven’t had one before, have you? Someone stronger than you who wasn’t trying to kill you or use you or hurt your family.” Marcel’s body heat is too much. Klaus has nowhere to turn and no cold corner left inside of himself that isn’t thirsty and hungry and dry. He wants to break Marcel open, dig his teeth into his thigh and take that risk. 

He turns his face away instead, and feels a few hairs rip free. 

“Is baldness to be a part of my punishment, then?” 

He isn’t expecting for Marcel to change tactics. Soft palms against his cheeks, to Marcel, to sun, to warmth, to relief. It is because, he realizes, Marcel’s face is open. He can read him again. What he reads makes his throat burn. 

“What have you done to me?” Klaus mutters. 

“It goes both ways,” Marcel says softly. “I’m in charge, but you’re _my_ charge. That means protection, keeping you alive. I’ve already done this much, haven’t I?” His hands slipped to the sides of Klaus’s neck, then, and rode the jugular like a lover. “We’ve always been each other’s. How do you behave when the roles are switched?”

“Badly!” Klaus snaps, and yanks himself away from Marcel and his _hands_. “I can’t _think_ , you’re… go away. _Leave_. Put that _thing_ back in my heart again if you must, I—” He draws his knees up to his chest and ignores the part of himself that berates him for behaving like a child. “I can’t bear to look at you.” 

“You want me to leave?” Marcel sounds amused but Klaus refuses to look at him. 

“I want what I shouldn’t. That’s always been my problem.”

“We’re the only two people here, Klaus. Now’s the time to talk.” 

“ _Fine_ ,” Klaus snarls, and moves on his knees to be in front of Marcel again, below him, again, at his _behest_ , _again_. “You have me on me knees, you have me in chains. You have the advantage— take it.” 

Marcel bends towards him, half a smile tugging at his lips. “Are you asking me to take advantage of you?” 

“I’m advising you,” Klaus says, as scathingly as he knows how, his hands behind his back so that Marcel cannot see them shaking. Both of them ignore the rattling of the chains. “That’s the real reason you brought me up. It must be. To advise you. There is my _invaluable_ advice.” 

“And how do you advise I take advantage?” 

“I would suggest,” Klaus says, his voice shaking, “making sure that the dissident knows that you want him where he is.” 

“And where is that?” Marcel asks, playing along. He straightens and steps forward, so that, if Klaus were nose to nose with the chalk line, he’d be— Klaus would be— they’d— 

“On his knees,” Klaus chokes out. “Subservient, if only for your eyes.” 

Marcel’s mouth falls open, just enough for Klaus to see his teeth. 

“Wouldn’t ask for anything more.” 

“You should,” Klaus says, lost in it, now. “You should ask how far the dissident would be willing to go. To prove himself to you. You said— you said that kings go down, that—” 

Marcel steps over the circle. Just at the edge of the line. Just enough. 

He says, “Show me.” 

 

Marcel looks down his nose at Klaus, and Klaus presses his knees together. Marcel raises his chin and Klaus makes quick work of belt, button, zipper, tugs at the pocket of his jeans until they slide. Marcel tilts his chin higher and puts his hand on the back of Klaus’s head, tangles his fingers in his hair, gentler, now, as Klaus takes him into his mouth, widens his lips, and moves. 

Klaus does not breathe and does not blink. He moves and he feels warmth, enveloping and consuming, and sucks until Marcel’s hands tighten, until Marcel sighs and pets his hair, his cheeks, runs his thumb across Klaus’s lip, thrusts enough that Klaus’s eyes threaten to close. 

Marcel says, “New Orleans, the city you like to say you built? It’s mine.” Marcel bows over Klaus, and curls his hips, and adds, “And so are you.” And Klaus parts his knees and gets a hand between his thighs and follows Marcel down, quick and rough and desperate. 

After, Marcel steps back outside of the circle and squats down. He brings Klaus’s face close enough to kiss, but catches something just outside of his lips with his thumb, instead. He pushes his thumb between Klaus’s lips, and Klaus chases it with his tongue. 

“This is a good start,” Marcel says, and again Klaus can’t meet his eyes. “I wonder what the next round of advice will look like. You’re right, it was invaluable.” Marcel’s voice sounds rough, but Klaus knows that his will sound rougher. His whole body feels warm, like he’s absorbed it from Marcel, like he’s stolen it. He looks up at him, eyes hot, body hot, stains on his pants smoldering. He waits for something to douse it.

**Author's Note:**

> initially prompted on tumblr. initial thoughts went like this: 
> 
> "Marcel with the knife that he’s most likely just pulled out of Klaus, Klaus with chains around his neck, around his wrists, around his ankles, Marcel a king he does not recognize as his, the king he has no choice but to recognize. Klaus who is only still alive by the grace of Marcel— how many people are still waiting to see him in pieces? Reduced to no more than ugly memory? _Oh._ "


End file.
